


Mou's

by maschh



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, FC Barcelona, M/M, restaurant AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cesc is a lonely university student in Madrid when he gets a job at Mou's, a restaurant full of culés. They bond over football and become like family. Well, not quite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

The University of Madrid is nothing like he'd expected it to be. He imagined huge, modern, neverending hallways packed with students laughing and chatting and bustling to class. Having fun but working hard. Personable, yes. Friendly, definitely. Full of Madridistas, of course. Both the new and those since birth. At least three jerseys a day.  
  
Instead, it's quiet. It's so big and so spread out that Cesc rarely sees people from his classes, let alone people clad in jerseys and willing to start a heated debate with him over whose midfield is developing better. (Cesc is a culé and he'd been looking forward to this part of his moving to Madrid with smiling anticipation.) The teachers are boring, the huge classes don't make meeting people any easier. If he was ever good at that in the first place.  
  
His roommate is another Madridista who sleeps all day and stays up all night. He invited Cesc out the first night, to show him his favorite parts of the city, but Cesc took a rain check and hasn't been asked back since.  
  
It's just as well, he reminds himself on occasion, usually when he's trying to sleep over the sound of Sergio's bedsprings creaking. God forbid he try to set Cesc up with one of those girls. He's been down that road so many times he's memorized the rest stops.  
  
He applies for a job at Mou's, the restaurant down the street from his dorm. It's the first one he sees that's hiring and isn't also advertising Live Nude Girls, so he figures that's some kind of start.  
  
“Help wanted, right?” Cesc asks, approaching the desk.  
  
“That's right,” the man standing there says, not looking up from his computer. His hair is curly and brown, and shags over his eyes, as if it doesn't know he's well into his thirties. “Just grab one of those applications.” Cesc eyes the pile on the floor as high as his waist.  
  
“Got enough of these?” He can't help but quip as he glances at the paper.  
  
“Yeah, thanks,” the man replies. He finally lifts his gaze and says to Cesc, “Sorry, I'm just playing hostess right now because our girls are off for lunch. I'm the manager. Carles Puyol.” He reaches over the counter to shake Cesc's hand. His handshake is firm and warm and his smile is genuine. Despite the hair, Cesc thinks he could definitely like him.  
  
“Cesc Fabregas. Nice to meet you.”  
  
“Barça?” Puyol gestures toward his backpack, which is still, embarrassingly, the one he had in high school, covered in Barcelona crests. But Puyol's not mocking and Cesc blushes only slightly as he whips his head back as if to check if he was still wearing it. “They're my team.”  
  
“Mine too,” Cesc says, and then feels quite stupid for stating the obvious.  
  
“Well, I hope you get the job, then,” Puyol grins. He chuckles a little at Cesc's look of shock and adds, “Yeah, we have to show Madrid games sometimes, because of the customers, but most of us are culés. You know, one of our cooks has a cousin that plays for them.”  
  
“Wow. He still does?”  
  
“Yep. Our Pepe. I forget his cousin's name though, he's a backup keeper so he doesn't play all that much. But still – playing for Barça.” He sighs and shakes his curls, his gaze far away.  
  
Indeed, when Cesc speaks again, Puyol seems to have just remembered he was there. “Well, thanks for all your help. I'll bring this in later?” He holds up the application.  
  
Puyol nods. “We're open till one.”  
  
“Thanks,” Cesc says as he walks outside, pleased with himself and not all that bothered about getting to class on time.

  
  
Puyol isn't there when he turns in the application the next day, and neither are the elusive hostesses. In fact, the desk is completely vacant when he approaches. He glances around nervously; he doesn't want to just leave it there. There's no bell to ring. “Excuse me?” he calls. A few people at nearby tables glance up at him, and he breaks eye contact quickly.  
  
It's eleven at night, and the restaurant isn't as full as the last time he was here, but he hears a lot of noise coming from the back (maybe a bar?). The lack of rush is probably why no one's manning the front desk. Finally someone sees him, a waiter towards the back. The waiter glances at him, then disappears toward the kitchen. He feels like stamping his foot.  
  
But a few seconds later, the kitchen doors fly open and he's greeted by someone else. It's not the little dark-haired scowling guy who presumably relayed the message that someone was here, but, in fact, his foil – a big, blond, aproned man who lights up at the sight of him, as though Cesc had personally gifted him by choosing this restaurant.  
  
“Hey. Just one?” He reaches toward the menus.  
  
“No, I—I'm not eating.” He pauses to look back at Cesc, oddly genuine in his curiosity. “I'm here for an application,” Cesc says. “For a job.”  
  
“No problem,” the giant says. “Waiter?”  
  
“Yeah, hi, I'm Cesc Fabregas,” Cesc says, holding out a hand.  
  
“Gerard Piqué. Short order cook,” he replies, shaking it.  
  
“You're not busy cooking?”  
  
“Nah.” He shrugs. “There are two of us. Besides, most people are just drinking by now.”  
  
“Ah.” Cesc nods wisely.  
  
“Do you need an application then?”  
  
“Oh.” Cesc has nearly forgotten. “No, no, I have one,” he murmurs as he riffles through his backpack till he finds it.  
  
“Barça, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Cesc grins instantly. “I hear they're popular here.”  
  
The big guy smiles, takes the paper without even glancing at it. “Yeah, somehow it turned out that we're all Barça supporters. A lot of us are Catalan.”  
  
“I'm Catalan!” Cesc almost shouts. A bit too excited. (But, truth be told, watching Barça matches is the closest he's felt to home since he got here.)  
  
Piqué laughs again, switches to their native tongue. “So am I. Where from?”  
  
“Vilassar del Mar? It's, like, twenty minutes from the city.”  
  
“Oh, okay. We might have traveled there a few times for football,” Piqué says thoughtfully.  
  
“Football? You still play?”  
  
“Eh, a bit,” he says, but more to his shoes than to Cesc.  
  
Cesc furrows his brow. “I was a center mid,” he offers.  
  
“Center back,” Piqué replies, looking up, and thankfully, the grin is back on his face. Cesc just smiles in relief and then Piqué is saying, a bit abruptly, “Hey, do you want to stay? We could fix you up at the bar.”  
  
“No, I can't,” he declines automatically.  
  
“You sure? There's a game on. It's just Espanyol, but the guys like to boo.” Piqué smiles hugely, and Cesc feels a little overwhelmed with how polite and earnest everyone here is. Except maybe the little waiter who glared at him before.  
  
He goes, “Sorry, I've got an early class tomorrow,” and he doesn't know why he's lying, really. He could stay and have a few drinks with this crowd. They feel like _his_ crowd, and he doesn't even know them yet.  
  
But Gerard Piqué is not to be deterred. “Oh, where d'you go?”  
  
“I'm at the University of Madrid,” he says in a rush.  
  
Piqué's eyebrows fly up. It's a good school, Cesc is all too aware.  
  
“And you're from _Barcelona_? And you're a football fan?" He laughs a little. He laughs a lot. Cesc has noticed that. "Why'd you pick Madrid?”  
  
Cesc blushes a little, caught off guard. “Well, it was the best school I got into,” Cesc responds. _Sorry I'm not more interesting._ “I mean, I don't mind Madrid.”  
  
Piqué shrugs easily. “No, me neither. It's a great city. Especially seeing Barça kick Real's asses at their own stadium!”  
  
“In front of their own fans!” Cesc agrees, laughing along.  
  
“Piqué! WE NEED YOU BACK HERE! I DON”T KNOW WHAT PEPE'S DONE WITH THE CHICKEN!” someone yells, cutting right through their peals of laughter.  
  
Piqué makes a face at Cesc. “Got to go,” he half-laughs. He turns around toward the kitchen and raises a hand in goodbye.  
  
“See you,” Cesc calls as he makes to leave. He's halfway out the door when he hears the response, so it's a bit garbled, but he thinks he heard right. He thinks Piqué said, “Hope so!"


	2. ii

Cesc doesn't hear back from Mou's. He doesn't apply to any other jobs.  
  
After a week, Sergio tells him he's being an idiot, that if they haven't called yet he should at least apply for other jobs like an adult. Cesc tells him if he wants to be taken seriously he should at least stop acting like his mother.  
  
They get along well, really. Their main connection is football, like all of Cesc's best relationships. Sergio is as devoted to Madrid as Cesc is to Barça, and he still plays five-a-side every weekend. He's invited Cesc a few times, but Cesc has seen Sergio with a ball and truth be told, he should be playing for his school, if not his country. Cesc stopped playing football years ago and he won't humiliate himself in front of his best (his only?) friend at uni. No, as far as Sergio is concerned, Cesc is just a _very_ avid football fan.  
  
“Seriously, Cesc,” Sergio is saying, gentle but emphatic, “you can't put all your eggs in one basket like that. Look, I'll go with you, help you look today, yeah? Got any plans?”  
  
“Nah, I've been everywhere, nowhere is hiring,” Cesc says, which is only partially true. No place was hiring where he looked – just the two blocks between his and Mou's.  
  
“Bullshit. C'mon. Grab your coat and we'll go,” Sergio stands up just as the phone rings.  
  
Cesc's eyes light up and he sprints across the room, beating Sergio to it.  
  
“Hello?” he says breathlessly. Sergio glares at him. “Yes, hi, _Puyol_.” He sticks out his tongue at Sergio. His heart's fluttering out of his chest. “Uh-huh. Yeah. No, it's no problem.” An interminable silence. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you. Thanks. All right.” He hangs up the phone and bites his lip, avoiding Sergio's gaze.  
  
“Well, what?” Sergio demands.  
  
“Oh, nothing. Just the manager of Mou's, telling me I got the job!” he yells, running over to hug Sergio. The taller man claps him on the back, shaking his head but smiling.  
  
“Lucky bastard,” he smiles, releasing Cesc and falling onto the couch again. Cesc takes back his armchair, laughing himself breathless. Sergio cracks up then too, hands slapping his knees. “ _Cabrón_.”  
  
~~~  
  
His first shift seems daunting at first. It's from seven till one, so it's rush hour, as everyone will remind him the entire night. Dinner. But it's mostly just juggling, something he's always been good at, so he does okay. He gets a few appreciative nods from the cooks for his efforts, and he has the always-handy “It's my first day” excuse when he does make a mistake or two. It goes over well with the customers, especially because it's true.  
  
“It's also because he's cute,” Pepe, the other short order cook, tells him later, pinching his cheek. They're cleaning up for the night and his hands are soapy.  
  
Cesc hides his blush in his apron as they laugh, scoff, mock him gently.  
  
“Well, if you put him next to guys like Villa, it's not too hard,” cracks Piqué. Cesc's not sure whether he should be offended or not.  
  
The little dark waiter who glared at Cesc the first day, Villa, throws a breadball at Piqué. “Hey! The people love me here! I will have you know I could _live_ off the tips I made tonight!”  
  
“Damn, Villa, you lost your house, too?” Pepe says, wide-eyed and innocent.  
  
They all crack up. Villa takes off his apron with as much annoyance as he can muster and slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Fuck all of you. I'm going home to my beautiful wife who loves everything about me.” Of course, this only makes them laugh even harder. Even the quiet little dishwasher (Leo, Cesc thinks his name is) is laughing. Villa waves them off in dismissal and heads for the door.  
  
“Love you, baby!” Piqué catcalls amid all the chortles.  
  
After a while, they hear, “ _Everything_ about me!” echo through the hall and it does nothing to stem their laughter.  
  
“You're ridiculous,” Cesc tells Piqué.  
  
He nods with that perpetual smile, making a face that sends Cesc into a fit of giggles all over again.  
  
“Hey, you two,” Pepe interrupts as they wipe tears from their eyes. “Grab those plates over there, would you? And put them in the sink.” They oblige him, and then, when Leo reaches for them, he adds, “Nah, leave 'em, Leo. Someone'll get them in the morning. Let's just get the fuck out of here, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Leo and Cesc say at the same time, and share a little smile.  
  
“So what'd you think of your first day?” Piqué asks Cesc, pulling on his jacket.  
  
“Eh, long.”  
  
Piqué holds the door open for them and then sighs into the cold night air. “Yeah, well, the first day's the longest.” But his grin belies his words as they say goodnight and go in different directions toward their cars.  
  
Cesc doesn't realize he's still smiling until he turns on the engine.  
  
~~~  
  
As it turns out, Piqué's right. The first day is the longest. In fact, the days seem to get shorter and shorter, yet Cesc seems to get back from work later and later. (Sergio is less and less likely to be there when he gets home.) He lingers most nights, usually drinking with Piqué, Pepe, Villa, little Leo and another guy named Sergio, a waiter they call Busi.  
  
Puyol lets them stay as long as they want as long as they “promise to go home eventually,” as Villa puts it with an eye roll. “As if we have nothing better to do than hang around here,” he adds.  
  
Busi chortles, almost choking on his beer. “ _Do_ you?” Villa stomps on his foot under the table, making him absolutely howl in pain.  
  
“Yeah, what happened to your wife that needs loving all the time?” Cesc says, with an awful attempt to keep a straight face.  
  
“Does she need loving of a different kind?” says Piqué, with a bit of a better one.  
  
Luckily, Pepe and the bartender Masch enter before Villa can lunge at the two of them. “Hey, listen—” Pepe starts to say.  
  
“Heyyyyy!” They all go in unison, ushering Masch over to them, purposefully ignoring Pepe.  
  
“Masch!”  
  
“Hey! Have a seat!”  
  
“We were just talking about you!”  
  
“The bar closed?”  
  
Masch glances at Pepe for a second, but the bald man shrugs it off, knowing when they're just fucking with him. “Hey, guys—” They all turn to look at him with angelic smiles. “Just came to say g'night. And _yes_ , Geri, the bar just closed.”  
  
“Cheers!” Piqué says in thanks, holding up his mug.  
  
“So you should all probably go home soon.”  
  
They make noises of discontent and then Villa is saying, “Hey, Pepe, before you go, we're having a matchday at my house on Sunday, for _el clásico_. You in?”  
  
“Of course!” Pepe grins. “Where else would I go in this city?”  
  
“Exactly!” someone yells.  
  
“Who's up for waving the culé flag in the streets after we win?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
“What else would we do?”  
  
“You guys are crazy.”  
  
“Hey, you're _coming_ , Leo!”  
  
~~~~  
  
It's a few days later when Piqué surprises Cesc for the first time. He's just starting his break and Piqué is just finishing his. They're in the kitchen, getting in people's way. “Hey, do you still play football?”  
  
“Yeah, sometimes, why?”  
  
“Dunno, I was thinking about a game. I haven't played in so long, but.” He's looking in his direction, but Cesc can tell his thoughts are elsewhere. He clears his throat, and Piqué's eyes focus again. “D'you think they'd be up to it?” Piqué jerks his head toward the rest of the kitchen, where people are bustling around, making themselves busy.  
  
“What? Oh yeah, of course. I mean, who know if they'd be any good,” Cesc finds himself laughing, and Piqué joins in, a softer, deeper sound.  
  
“And you want to come?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I actually—” and he doesn't know why he's saying this, doesn't know where this will get him— “I have a friend, er, my roommate, plays five-a-side on Saturdays and he invites me. You guys are all welcome to come.” Actually, he's not sure about that, especially _all_ of them, but shit, he's already said it.  
  
“He won't mind?” Cesc shrugs him off. “No, really, I mean—Villa? Masch? Leo who doesn't say anything, ever? I mean, they're great, but, you know.” They're laughing again.  
  
“It's fine,” Cesc promises. “Just tell everyone who's coming to the match on Sunday. Half of them will be working or busy or something anyway.”  
  
“You're right,” Piqué says, putting on his apron and rejoining Pepe. “You're right. Thanks, man.”  
  
~~~  
  
As Cesc expected, Sergio doesn't bat an eye when he asks him if his friends can come. _(You have friends? Of course you have friends! I have friends, we all have friends! Let's get our friends all together!)_ He doesn't know if he's relieved or if it makes him more anxious.  
  
Cesc rides with Sergio and gives Masch his own set of directions, which turns out to be a mistake. Sergio introduces his crowd as “Fernando, Alvaro and...” something he can't quite hear over the music (maybe Chori? but that can't be right). He sits in the middle as Sergio's friends shout inside jokes over his head. The one on the left is loud, freckly, and thinks everything he says is hilarious. The one the right has caterpillar eyebrows and thinks everything in the known _world_ is pretty damn funny. Sergio and the guy in the front turn around every other second to join in and Cesc doesn't know where to look. He's also preoccupied with the idea that they might crash at any minute as Sergio is more interested in clapping and yelling than driving.  
  
But they make it there alive, in five distinct pieces, and (even though Masch can't drive for anything and he insisted) Piqué's crowd are there already when they arrive, cleated up and wearing Cheshire cat grins. Cesc can't help but smile when he sees them. Sergio waves him off, tells him to go see his friends.  
  
The last guy in Sergio's party arrives late, a quiet guy named Mesut (who speaks mostly German, Cesc discovers) and the introductions are a bit awkward to say the least. But in the end they all click; it's _football_ anyway. Cesc and Sergio shake hands and then it's kickoff.  
  
It turns out all of Sergio's friends are at least as good as he is, if not better. The scoreline is brutal. They force Busi into goal, and he just laughs, diving spectacularly late for each goal that sinks in, for every ball that even comes near his line. Cesc is okay, he just needs some more wind, but Leo is the worst. At one point, he accidentally tackles Masch for the ball, wins it somehow, and then loses it to Albiol within seconds. Cesc is glad he's learned to laugh at this stuff because it's getting ridiculous.  
  
He glances at Piqué after the sixth or seventh goal. The bastard might not have even broken a sweat. “You all right?” Pique asks, coming over.  
  
“Fine,” Cesc wheezes.  
  
“Maybe an early halftime? I might need it too.” He glances around, uncomfortable, shakes his leg in the air like he's trying to make his ankle come off. “Are we doing this by goals or what, cause I think it'd be over already.”  
  
“Nah. I'm fine. Really.” Cesc puts his hands above his head. “Fine.”  
  
Piqué gives him a skeptical look and disappears to go talk to Sergio.  
  
Eventually, Piqué has to force a still-wheezing Cesc onto the bleachers and Sergio's team takes Leo to balance it out.  
  
“It's not for you, it's for me,” Piqué keeps saying to Cesc. “My foot's hurting a bit and you're keeping me company.”  
  
“Whatever,” Cesc pouts, sitting down a row above him.  
  
“Been a while since you played, huh?” Piqué says a couple minutes later.  
  
“Yeah,” Cesc agrees, not willing to say more. He's good at football, damn it. He's allowed to be sensitive about how out of shape he is.  
  
“How long?” Piqué presses.  
  
“I played my whole life. Stopped my first year of high school.” Piqué waits, and then Cesc adds, “My dad made me quit. Said I needed to focus on my studies.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“I did,” Cesc admits.  
  
“University of Madrid,” Piqué agrees, and whistles lowly.  
  
“Scholarship,” Cesc says, even lower.  
  
Piqué meets his eyes, and the awe is almost too obvious. He grins, punching Cesc lightly in the shoulder. “Nerd.”  
  
Cesc chuckles. “Nah, I'd rather have played football.”  
  
“You loved it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Cesc says softly.  
  
“So did I.”  
  
“What happened? You're _good_ , still in shape and everything,” Cesc laughs, and Piqué shrugs.  
  
He clears his throat. “I—I went to _La Masia_ —”  
  
“So did I! Wow, we must have just missed each other. I started in _Alevi_ —”  
  
“I was in _Alevi B*_ and the rest were all A's – _Infantil, Cadet, Juvenil_...” Piqué rattles them off.  
  
“Oh, I was _Alevi A_ and... then, yeah, I was  _Infantil B_. I don't remember you. Or maybe—no, you didn't dorm there, did you?”  
  
“No, it was, like, twenty minutes from my house.”  
  
“Oh, okay. I had a dorm there.”  
  
Piqué nods. “But that's terrible that you had to leave so early. I mean, you did the better thing, definitely, don't get me wrong—” he laughs, though there's a sadness in it that Cesc can't quite place. “But I mean, if you loved it...” he trails off.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Cesc shrugs.  
  
“Were you any good?”  
  
"Yeah, pretty good. You'd never know it from today, though.”  
  
“I believe you.”  
  
They're silent for a while then, watching the game and letting the air cool their skin. The scoring has eased up a bit, but the game's still terribly boring. The loud freckled guy on Sergio's team (Fernando, Cesc thinks his name is), keeps smacking his gloves together and spitting on them, for lack of anything else to do.  
  
“Look at the keeper,” Piqué says, pointing, that grin still on his face.  
  
“Pfft. Twat.”  
  
Piqué laughs, deep and long, and the sound is more beautiful than Cesc could ever explain. He bites his lip.  
  
“You?”  
  
Piqué stares at him. “What?”  
  
“Were you good at football?”  
  
“Eh, I was okay.”  
  
“Never played for Barça B?”  
  
“A bit.”  
  
“What does that mean, a bit?” Cesc nudges Piqué's shoulder with his knee, smiling playfully.  
  
“Until...” He's brushing his shoe against the grass, scuffing it back and forth like his life depends on it, “until I...couldn't. Anymore.”  
  
“Why? What happened?”  
  
“I had a bad tackle in a game. Broke my foot in three places.” He gestures to the other foot that's propped up on the bleacher in front of them. “I was seventeen.”  
  
“But—but you're fine! You were just playing, and you were fine!” Cesc sputters.  
  
Piqué smiles a little, shakes his head. “No,” he murmurs. “I can pass okay, but my running's gone to shit. It's my off foot,” he explains. He rubs his beard. “D'you know I was being scouted?”  
  
Cesc just shakes his head. Still in shock.  
  
“Yeah. For Atletico, Espanyol, Arsenal, Manchester United—”  
  
“No way,” Cesc says. “Man United?”  
  
Piqué nods. “Yeah. Until I shattered my foot, that is. The scouts might've even been at that game, I dunno.”  
  
“Wow.”  
  
“They told me I would never be able to play on that same level again.”  
  
“I'm sorry,” Cesc says, but it makes sense. Why he initiated the kickabout, why Cesc sometimes catches him look desperately sad and far away, why his passes are so perfect.  
  
“So, I moved to Madrid. I needed a city but Barcelona was too much... or not enough, I guess.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“And...and I love it here,” he says simply. “I love the city. I love Mou's, I love everyone there, I love _this_ ,” he says, gesturing around them.  
  
Cesc almost thinks he's talking about being there with him, but luckily he remembers himself. “Yeah, it's beautiful here,” he says belatedly. Piqué gives him a quizzical look and Cesc looks away because God forbid he start _blushing_.  
  
“So were you better than Sergio, then? At your best?” Cesc asks innocently a bit later, as if that's what he's been thinking about the whole time.  
  
Piqué's face lights up in that way that Cesc loves (the way that makes him proud that he was responsible for it) and he replies, “Oh yes, I was much better than Sergio.”  
  
Cesc grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The football teams at La Masia are grouped by age, and each group also is divided into A and B. So at age eleven to twelve, you would be either in Alevi A or B, ages thirteen to fourteen, Infantil Aor Infantil B, fourteen to fifteen Cadet A or Cadet B, sixteen to eighteen Juvenil A or Juvenil B, which is the last stage for youth training. You can also join Barça B at any time when you become good enough.


	3. iii

Everyone shows up to _el clásico_ at Villa's, but Cesc didn't expect any different. Pepe arrives a few minutes before kickoff with Yolanda, one of the waitresses, and definitely halfway to drunk already.

Puyol brings drinks (“to get us drunk enough to forget he's there,” Masch says to Cesc at one point, probably accurately). Between him and Villa, they probably have enough to knock out a small army. Cesc already feels buzzed at kickoff, wedged between Busi and Piqué on the couch.

As the match goes on without a goal, they get louder, more slurred. The referee becomes a _cabrón, hijo de puta_. The most incidental touches on Barça players become savage, merciless tackles, and at least half of them have “got to be a fucking penalty, ref! Unbelievable!” Even Leo is swearing under his breath. Piqué keeps grabbing Cesc's knee, perhaps unconsciously, whenever something dramatic happens. It makes his heart stutter once or twice and he hates himself for it.

It's a corner in the 80th minute when someone (maybe Villa, but just as easily Pepe) screams, “All right, let's get a fucking goal now, guys!” Iniesta, as if he heard him, flicks it over the top and all of a sudden, there's Abidal, beautiful Abidal, heading it into the net. The second of silence, and then –

The floor shakes under them. Everyone jumps to their feet, even those who were covering their ears for half the match, screaming, whooping, hugging each other because, maybe, just maybe their fate has been saved. Piqué grabs Cesc in a giant bear hug, picks him up off the ground. He laughs, exhilarated, and wraps his arms around Piqué's neck, burying his face there for a second. Piqué puts him down and, out of the corner of his eye, Cesc sees him wipe a tear.

“Crying already?” Cesc chides as he watches his friend sway.

“These guys...” he trails off, unable to finish.

“Congratulations!” Villa cries, coming up to them. He holds up his drink and toasts, “To Barça!”

“To B—” everyone starts, but they're interrupted by the commentator's yell when Valdés almost fumbles an easy save. There's a collective sigh of relief, and then David continues, as if it never happened, “Barça!”

“Barça!” the room echoes, and they all knock back another one.

 

 

Piqué demands a ride home, says he's much too drunk to take the metro, and besides, Masch has had barely anything to drink the whole night. This second part is definitely debatable but they pile into his old green five-seater anyway. Villa is spent, sleeping against the window next to Masch.

“I hate this car,” Piqué stage whispers in Cesc's ear, halfway to laughing, as they squeeze into the backseat. “Don't tell him!”

“Okay, I promise,” Cesc says, squirming into his chest. Busi is on his other side, but he's so bony, not nearly as comfortable as Piqué.

“Ey! Shut up about my car!” Masch glares at them in the rearview mirror.

“He's not drunk enough,” Cesc murmurs and they split their sides trying to contain themselves.

“HEY!” Masch slams on the brakes and turns around, and maybe it's the combination of almost hitting the car in front of them and the look in his eyes, but Cesc cowers into Piqué's chest. Thankfully, Masch has finally turned around.

“Huh?” Villa stirs. Masch just rolls his eyes.

Cesc is laughing against Piqué's stomach, short little gasps. Suddenly he stops. He looks up at Piqué, with this intense look of worry on his face. “I feel sick,” he says.

“Really sick? Are you gonna throw up?”

Cesc shakes his head worriedly. Then he nods.

“Fuck! He's gonna throw up! Pull over, Masch, pull over!” Piqué yells, sounding more sober than he probably ever has.

“What the fuck? Not in my car!” Glancing back momentarily, he hits the gas and passes six or seven cars within seconds. Cesc covers his mouth and retches.

“Slow down!”

“Mmmmph!”

“It's not even a nice car,” Busi muses.

Finally, Masch has mercy and stops at an overgrown gas station. Cesc climbs over Piqué clumsily, his hand still over his mouth, and lets loose the second his feet hit the pavement.

Piqué gets out eventually and rubs his back, although by that time the worst is long over.

“You okay?”

Cesc sniffs, wipes his mouth. Nods. “Okay,” he replies.

“Here,” Piqué offers, pulling a pack of gum out of his pocket. Cesc smiles wanly and puts a stick in his mouth.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” And then, “C'mon, let's go,” he says, and pulls him by the sleeve.

“All right?” Masch asks through the window.

“Yeah. And so is his jersey.” Piqué points out Cesc's spotless Barça shirt with a chuckle.

“And so is my car,” Masch mutters, but they pretend not to hear him.

 

 

They stumble into Piqué's apartment, fingers grasping for light switches, hands falling low on each other's hips, maybe too low, maybe they're happier in the dark. Finally Piqué finds the light and it floods the room, stemming their laughter for a minute, until they realize that it has and start laughing all over again.

“Turn it off,” Cesc whines, falling onto the couch.

“Oooh, you like it in the dark?” Piqué has his back to him, scanning all the light switches. It'd be hard even if he wasn't wasted, that's how complicated they are.

“Why do you have so many lights?”

“Dunno,” he says thoughtfully, flicking one that makes it almost pitch black. He tries another one that's a bit dimmer, that softens Cesc's features, and he can't stop himself grinning. “Good?”

“Yeah,” Cesc yawns, stretches like a cat. “C'mere.”

He does, sits on the edge of the couch and Cesc crawls towards him, putting his head in his lap. He laughs a little, runs his fingers through Cesc's hair. Cesc closes his eyes and opens them again.

“You have a lot of paintings too."

Piqué shrugs. “I guess.” He doesn't look up from stroking Cesc's hair.

Cesc sits up on an elbow. “You're rich, aren't you?”

Piqué laughs, endeared, and pushes his head back onto his lap. Cesc makes a little noise in the back of his throat, but tucks a hand under Piqué's thigh. To keep himself there. “My parents are rich.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Piqué is a good drunk, a storyteller. “They were ready to pay for whatever school I wanted... well, wherever I got in. I didn't want that, though. I just wanted to get away. So they paid for that too,” he concedes, chuckling a little. “I went to England, Italy, Holland, lived in Morocco for a couple of years. They knew I needed to get away from everything I left in Barcelona.” He clears his throat. “But I love Spain. So eventually I came back. I met a guy whose cousin worked at a restaurant in Madrid and he said maybe he could get me a job there. And somehow I got the job at Mou's – it turned out his cousin was Pepe – and I worked there as a waiter for a while. I fell in love with the city so fast, I can't even believe it now. And then eventually one of their cooks quit and they decided I better fill in. I mean, I had to cook so much when I was away so I'd gotten pretty good.”

He glances down at Cesc, who is snoring quietly on his lap. “Hey,” he whispers, moving his thigh a bit under Cesc's head.

“Mmm—what?”

“You fell asleep,” Piqué grins.

“Oh.” Cesc frowns, rubbing his eyes with his fists like a kid. Piqué tries not to laugh.

“Let's go to bed,” he suggests. He ends up half-carrying Cesc along the narrow hallway, stopping halfway in front of the second bedroom. “Guest room should be cleaned up enough for you.”

Cesc hesitates, bites his lip. Finally he says, “Can I sleep with you?” There is only one answer.

 

 

Piqué wakes up in the middle of the night (or maybe it's closer to the morning) to feel labored breathing in his ear and something hard against his back.

He wishes he was more drunk than he is.

 

 

The next morning, Cesc is gone by the time Piqué gets up, and for an odd, fleeting moment he wonders if it was just all just a bizarre dream, spurred on by all the alcohol.

But then he rolls over and his phone is displaying one new message:

_Sorry, I had the lunch shift. Didn't want to wake you._

Fuck. Like they're boyfriends or something.

His head is killing him. And he has to go in tonight. He flops back onto the pillow, trying to imagine what could make him hard in the middle of the night. He tries not to think of Cesc, pressed up against him, aching and longing and refusing to touch himself.

He tries.

 

 

Piqué arrives late on purpose, determined to avoid any chance of seeing Cesc after his shift. Luckily, he's Puyol's favorite, so he worst he gets is a bit of a glare. He just responds with a sheepish grin and ambles off to the kitchen.

“ _Tonto_! Where have you been? There's a fucking dinner rush!”

“Aw, shut up Pepe, it's Monday,” Piqué says, putting on his apron. “And I'm hung over.”

“Eh, so is everyone. From drowning their sorrows or celebrating. At least you were one of the lucky ones, eh?” Pepe points out.

“Not lucky,” Piqué mutters, but Pepe hears him anyway.

“You're right,” Pepe replies, and for a terrible, irrational second Piqué wonders if he knows. But then Pepe continues, “We're not lucky, we're just better,” and Piqué realizes he's still talking about football. He mumbles a reply and Pepe says he's just going to grab something from the back.

“Hey, we need another _paella_  for table seven,” someone says, and Piqué looks up to find Cesc has materialized right in front of him, smiling brightly and wearing an apron that matches his. _Shit_.

“Uh....yeah,” Piqué says eloquently. “Sure.”

Pepe reappears then, smiling at the awkward silence, odd for the two of them. “You stayed for the dinner shift?” Pepe asks, voicing Piqué's thoughts.

Cesc shrugs. “Villa had somewhere to go. I dunno.”

“You mean you don't care," Piqué blurts, but they laugh and it eases the tension a little.

“He asked me to cover for him, so...” Cesc trails off. “Yeah, I was just telling him, another _paella_  for table seven,” he repeats to Pepe.

“No problem,” Pepe grins. “Get lost.” And Cesc does, the grin never leaving his face.

Piqué goes, “Shit!” and drops the wooden spoon he's holding on the counter.

“What?!”

Piqué points at the door where Cesc just left.

“Fuck, I thought you burned yourself or something!” Pepe half-laughs in relief. “What's with you two? Why was that so awkward?”

“Oh fuck, Pepe, you're never gonna believe me!” Piqué whines, his head in his hands.

“What? It can't be that bad, it's you two,” Pepe says doubtfully.

“Last night, we were both drunk, obviously,” Piqué explains in a hushed tone. “He slept over at mine. He asked to sleep in my bed, right? In the middle of the night, I wake up and we're practically spooning.”

“Pfft,” Pepe waves a hand. “I've heard worse.”

“And—and! He was hard!” Piqué hisses.

Pepe's face turns into a cartoon character's. “Nooooooo.”

“Yes,” Piqué says breathlessly. Pepe stares at him, raises an eyebrow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You sure this wasn't some – dream or – I don't know, fantasy or something?”

“What are you talking about?” Piqué's voice is getting higher and higher.

“You were drunk, maybe what you think happened didn't end up happening, or maybe it got a little – jumbled.”

“What? Pepe, you gotta believe me!”

“When you woke up, was he there?”

“What does that have to—”

“Just—was he there?”

“No.”

“Ahh.”

“But he left me a text!” Piqué says, pulling out his phone triumphantly. “It says, 'Sorry, I had the lunch shift. Didn't want to wake you.'” Pepe's eyes widen. He's impressed. “Do you believe me now?”

“Wow.” Pepe shakes his head incredulously, picks up the spoon Piqué left on the counter and turns back to the stove. “Maybe you're right,” he says, still shaking his head as he glances at the food.

“You can't tell him about this,” Piqué insists. “Or anyone. I'm serious, Pepe.”

“Hey, back to your _paella_ , eh?” is all Pepe says in reply.

 

 

“Guys! Big spenders!” Busi grins, bustling into to the kitchen an hour so later. “So don't fuck up the food, okay?”

“Which table?” Pepe turns around to flip through the orders.

“Four. A bunch of suits. They look impressive,” Busi tells them.

“Of course,” Pepe says with uncharacteristic bitterness, finding the sheet. “They're not yours, are they?”

“Nah, Cesc's. I think a couple of them fancy him, to be honest,” Busi says, raising his voice as Cesc ambles in, a bit flushed.

“What? Who fancies who?”

“That guy at table four _fancies you_ ,” Pepe says effeminately.

Cesc's ears turn red. “Which one?”

“The one with the mustache and the little head,” Busi says as if it was obvious. Piqué scoffs.

“Who, Iker?” Cesc says. But he knows. He's acting too innocent, giving himself away.

“Oh!” Busi cries, swooning. “Practically married already.” He and Pepe crack up. Piqué forgets to.

“So much for a calm Monday night,” sighs Piqué, throwing his spatula in the air and catching it.

“What's with him?” Cesc asks Pepe.

“Who knows?" says Pepe smoothly. "Table four's usually Villa's, isn't it?"

“Oh yeah, it is,” Busi realizes. “Lucky bastard. Villa'll kill you for this.”

Cesc laughs like he's flattered, grabs a new pad from the shelf before heading back out again. “Maybe.”


	4. iv

“Of course,” Villa is saying. “Of course the big spenders come to _my_ table the one night I take off.” He's not really angry, just excited and eager to talk. He's got a reputation for a bit of a short fuse, but it's more like he just doesn't exactly know how to channel his excitement. His constant excitement about everything. “Monday night? I mean, what are the odds?”  
  
They shrug as a collective, more interested in their beer than this monologue. Cesc keeps eyeing him warily though; he still feels guilty after several apologies.  
  
“Hey, Villa?” Cesc says suddenly. He realizes too late that Villa's still talking.  
  
“Yeah?” sighs Villa, feigning annoyance at being cut off.  
  
“I need you to cover for me this weekend.”  
  
“After all that? Sure you don't want to bat your eyelashes a couple more times? You'll probably double your tips,” he snaps, but there's no real malice behind it (maybe even a compliment somewhere in there). “When?”  
  
“Saturday.”  
  
“What's going on Saturday?” Busi asks, finally perking up.  
  
“Is that your hot date?” Pepe joins in, right on cue.  
  
Cesc blushes and focuses on the drink in front of him, but it's enough of an answer.  
  
“Oooh,” they all go, even Piqué.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, sure, I'll cover for you,” Villa tells him.  
  
“And Geri, can I stay at yours after? My R.A. will do me if I get back too late.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, no problem,” Piqué says slyly. “We wouldn't want _that_ to happen.” Cris, Cesc's R.A., is tall and handsome.  
  
Cesc babbles on, oblivious. “I mean, if _Sergio_ gets in at four in the morning, it's no problem. But if I come home after midnight, it's 'Cesc, where have you been? Cesc, you should be studying! Cesc, this can't be helping your GPA...'” Pepe and Busi bob their heads sympathetically. “It's like I can't do anything right.”  
  
“Where is he taking you?” Villa asks, his timing off.  
  
“I dunno yet,” Cesc says quietly, still thinking about Cris.  
  
“Somewhere nice, probably,” Busi offers, as if he hadn't spoken. “You might want to dress up.”  
  
“But not too much. You don't want to be the only one wearing a suit,” Pepe adds.  
  
“So what do I wear?” Cesc says anxiously.  
  
“Wear that red shirt your mom got you last Christmas,” Piqué supplies instantly.  
  
Cesc makes a face of disgust. “Ugh, no, I don't want to be thinking about my mom when I'm with him.”  
  
Piqué shrugs. “It looks good on you.”  
  
“Anything with a collar,” Pepe says.  
  
“And don't wear shorts,” Busi advises.  
  
But Cesc's brain is a few steps behind, still tripping over the last words out of Piqué's mouth. “You sure?” he asks Piqué, cutting off the other two easily.  
  
He nods. “Definitely.”  
  
  
  
Piqué sits in front of the TV Saturday night, waiting without knowing that he is. His phone lights up and buzzes, obvious in the dark room. It's Rio.  
  
 _You fucking someone new or something?_ Piqué rolls his eyes. He'd told Rio and Vida that something had come up Saturday night, could they maybe come down from Manchester next weekend? Since then, Rio had been giving him shit on Twitter and elsewhere. But what else is new?  
  
 _I wish,_ Piqué replies, and returns his attention to the TV.  
  
The ten o'clock news comes and goes, and so does the eleven o'clock. Now and then he feels his eyelids flicker shut for just a little too long. Before he knows it, it's two o'clock and he's watching paid programming.  
  
“Fuck,” he murmurs, picking his head up from the arm of the couch, cracking his neck.  
  
He mutters Cesc's name like a curse word as he pads off to bed.  
  
  
  
The customers pile in the next morning still groggy and half-asleep, with the distinct look that they're still not sure whether the trip was worth it. Nuria, who works Sunday mornings, greets Piqué with a smile he'd like to save and a piece of paper with an order on it.  
  
“Rough night?” she asks. He's not sure if they've ever spoken before.  
  
“Eh, not like I wanted,” he replies.  
  
She nods, understanding. “Better luck next weekend, then,” she says coyly, and if it's an opportunity for him to ask her out, he registers it a bit too late. But he yells a thanks, watches her hips swivel from side to side as she walks away. Almost forgets to look at the paper she's given him.  
  
“Eggs, one scrambled, one fried,” he reads out loud, to clear his head.  
  
The back door bangs open then, and Piqué tries not to cringe. It can only be Cesc.  
  
“Hey!” Cesc calls, shutting the door just as loudly and storming down the hallway. “Villa? Pepe? Geri?” He sees Piqué at the stove and corrects himself, tones it down a little bit. “Geri, I'm so sorry,” he says, but he's breathless, absolutely glowing ( _he got laid and I didn't?_ He _got_ laid _and I_ didn't?). “About last night?”  
  
“Oh, don't worry about it,” Piqué says, as if it was a surprise that Cesc even brought it up. “You enjoyed yourself, I'm sure.” Cesc blushes, avoids his gaze. Piqué's eyes widen. “Wow, that good, huh?”  
  
Cesc just pulls on his apron and retreats to the fridge. He gulps down some orange juice straight from the carton.  
  
Piqué shrugs nonchalantly. “I mean, I'm just proud, it'd been so long since you got laid—”  
  
Cesc spits out the juice as Piqué collapses into laughter, almost burning himself on the stove.  
  
“Shut the fuck up!” he yells, laughing, crumpling up the rest of the carton and throwing it at Piqué.  
  
Piqué dodges it effortlessly. “Your virginity had almost grown back.”  
  
“Whose virginity?” Puyol has just wandered in, his eyebrows up to his hairline. Cesc and Piqué sober up immediately, make guilty eye contact.  
  
A beat. “Well, _Cesc's_ , obviously,” Piqué says, fighting a smile.  
  
Puyol just stares. Shakes his head, stalks off toward the refrigerator in the back.  
  
“Hey, make your eggs,” Cesc says threateningly to Piqué, halfway out the door of the kitchen.  
  
 _“Make your eggs,”_ Piqué chides.  
  
  
  
It doesn't hurt, per se. It's more like a nagging itch. He'll forget about it for a while, hours at a time, usually when he's with his other friends or messing around with the guys at the restaurant after work (and sometimes Cesc is there, sometimes he isn't), but it'll always come back, the itch. When Cesc's phone vibrates and he catches a glimpse of that smile, the secret one he reserves, before he answers the text. Or when he has to leave early for one reason or another (it's all the same reason anyway), and he bows out of a poker game or a Barça match.  
  
Who the fuck bows out of Barça matches? Not a kid with a Barça backpack, anyway.  
  
“Is your boyfriend a Madridista?” Piqué asks one day, nonchalantly. They don't really talk about Iker very often, just the two of them, and when they do it's like this: forced casual. Piqué's usually pretty good at casual – but Cesc knows him too well by now.  
  
“Yeah,” Cesc replies with equal indifference. “You do realize that Mou's isn't normal, right? In most cities, people actually root for the home team. You know that?” he says, only half-kidding.  
  
Piqué chooses to ignore this last bit, tsks, shakes his head. “He'll convert you before long.”  
  
Cesc shakes his head.  
  
“Then it won't last,” Piqué tries.  
  
“Nah,” he says cheerfully, but his face is more solemn.  
  
“Hey, where's your Barça backpack, huh? Haven't seen it in a while.”  
  
"Oh, I threw that away a while ago.”  
  
“Coincidence?” Piqué cries triumphantly, too loudly. It's late on a Thursday night. Neither of them has anything to do. They're sitting in a booth in the almost-empty restaurant, having finished for the day. Piqué's feet up are on Cesc's side of the bench, and his hands are behind his head. Everything about him is too big for the booth.  
  
Cesc just grins, shaking his head. And there's the itch again, in his feet, in the palms of his hands. He tries not to squirm.  
  
“You want to go out?” he asks, though he doesn't really mean it, it's just something to say.  
  
“Uh, sure,” Cesc looks up, surprised. “Is Villa around?”  
  
“Villa, Pepe, Busi...Leo, I think,” Piqué says, turning around to check for signs of life. “I'll go find out.” He unfolds his legs from the little booth and wanders over to the kitchen. Villa and Pepe are there, talking passionately about some German team Piqué is only half aware of, and Leo sits in between them, nodding occasionally, a bit awed.  
  
“Hey, up for a boys' night?” Piqué asks, used to interrupting. “Where's Masch and Busi and everyone?”  
  
“They left,” Pepe informs him.  
  
“Isn't every night a boys' night?” Villa says. There's a bit of a whine in it.  
  
“Fuck off,” Piqué replies casually to Villa, and then addresses Pepe: “What about you? Are you up, old man?”  
  
Pepe shrugs. He doesn't look thrilled. The bells that signify the front door opening chime and Piqué turns around, has found a new source of excitement.  
  
“We're closed!” he yells. Gives them an excited look, then heads back out to the tables. “Closed! We close at eleven on Thursdays!”  
  
But the intruder is carrying a bouquet and looks extremely repentant. He also has a mustache and fancy clothes – it admittedly puts Piqué off for a second.  
  
“Sorry, I—”  
  
“What're you—”  
  
“Geri,” Cesc says, trotting over, speaking over both of them, “this is my boyfriend, Iker. You guys have never met,” he adds unnecessarily. “Iker, Geri.”  
  
“Oh. Oh!” Piqué laughs, grabbing Iker's hand that isn't still holding the bouquet. “Well, this is a surprise. Nice to finally meet the man I've heard so much about.”  
  
Iker's hands are soft and warm, his grip slight. “Same to you,” he says with a faint smile before turning his attention to Cesc. “These are for you,” he murmurs, as if it was private, handing him the flowers and planting a kiss on his cheek. Cesc takes them, practically blushing. He makes a noise of contentment and Iker snakes an arm around his waist.  
  
Piqué clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well, I'll just tell them all you're here,” he says, to disappear, and funnily enough, they barely even notice he's gone.  
  
“Who was that?” Villa immediately asks when Piqué re-enters the kitchen.  
  
“ _Iker_ ,” Piqué says as scathingly as he can. “Iker with his flowers and his fancy suit on a Thursday night. Better go meet him before he turns into a pumpkin or something.”  
  
“Don't be so fucking jealous,” Villa retorts.  
  
His heart skips a beat or two or seven. He can see Pepe freeze on the other side of Villa.  
  
“What?” Villa continues. “ _Some_ one had to get between Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum eventually. Don't worry, you guys will still be able to hang out.”  
  
Piqué sighs in laughter, rubs the back of his head with his hand, leans back against the wall. “Yeah, yeah, you're right.”  
  
“By the way,” Villa says, as he follows Leo and Pepe out the door, “we met Iker a long time ago. I don't know where you've been.”  
  
The polite greetings between the rest of Cesc's co-workers and his boyfriend are only slightly marred by the faint sounds of crashes coming from the kitchen.  
  
  
  
The next day, Cesc stands by the stove and watches Piqué cook. Taps his foot, crosses his arms. Clears his throat. Piqué glances up now and then. When the dish is finally ready, Cesc takes it, storms off without a thanks and immediately returns to start the process all over again.  
  
“Ugh. Piqué was terrible last night. But Cesc couldn't ignore him if he tried,” Villa says to Leo over the sink. “It'd be better for all of us if they could.”  
  
Leo nods. “They're as bad as each other.”  
  
Villa looks up, surprised at the response and the wisdom of it, but the kid's immersed in his dishes once again. “Yeah,” he agrees, maybe hoping for another precious word or two. “They are.”  
  
Piqué's smile, playing around on the corner of his lips for some time now, breaks to the surface when Cesc returns looking particularly sulky. Clearly his plan has backfired on him.  
  
“You're not gonna say anything to me?” Piqué says, laughing, stirring the enormous pot in front of him. “Cescki... how am I even supposed to know what I did wrong?”  
  
“You know what you did,” Cesc insists, biting his lip to keep him from saying anything more.  
  
Piqué looks confused, shakes his head. “Mmm... nope.”  
  
“Fuck's sake, Geri,” Cesc shouts, forgetting the slip of paper with the order on it. “Giving me shit for dating Iker all the time, breaking stuff in the kitchen yesterday? You've been awful and you know it.”  
  
“That wasn't—that's not—” Piqué splutters. He'd walked out last night, he hadn't even had a chance to explain himself to Cesc yet.  
  
“No! Ever since I started going out with Iker, you've been so fucking _jealous_ , everyone can see it!”  
  
“Jealous of what?” Piqué fires back. “Jealous of Mr. Stuck Up, Big Spender, Flowers For No Reason? Jealous of Mr. Classy who fucks on the first date? A  _college kid?_ Yeah, you're right! That's it, Cesc, you've cracked the _fucking_ case!”  
  
Cesc flushes and glances around. He wishes he hadn't started yelling. “Stop it,” he says levelly, dangerously.  
  
Piqué's not done, though. “Fucking pedophile. What is he, thirty-five?”  
  
“What is your problem?!” hisses Cesc incredulously. “Why is this so important to you?”  
  
“My best fucking – my _best_ fucking friend,” he says, a little softer, “is spending all his time with this sleazebag who only wants—”  
  
“Only wants what?”  
  
“Never mind,” Piqué says, properly quiet for the first time, back to chopping carrots. The silence stretches and he continues to ignore Cesc, throws the carrots in the soup.  
  
“It's none of your business,” Cesc says finally. His voice is halfway to breaking. Piqué doesn't let himself look up, just bites his lip a little. “Leave me alone if you can't deal with me having a boyfriend. Okay?”  
  
“It's not—” Piqué starts to say, but Cesc is already out the door.  
  
Piqué sighs. He sticks a finger in the soup, but pulls it out a second later in pain. Much too hot.  
  
  
  
That night, Pepe offers him a ride home, and Piqué eagerly obliges. It's not been the easiest of days. Most of the guys were treating Cesc and Piqué like they had the plague – never getting too close, walking on eggshells if they were forced to talk at all – which of course didn't help their situation in the slightest. But Pepe was understanding. Pepe had seen worse get worked out. At least, Piqué liked to think so.  
  
“You know, Iker likes Cesc” is the way Pepe breaks the ice as soon as the restaurant is out of sight. Piqué glances at him uncertainly.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah. I mean, really likes him. You know, cares about him and all that.”  
  
“He should.”  
  
“Of course he should. But Geri, I heard the two of you.”  
  
“Did everyone?”  
  
Pepe shrugs, nods. “Enough of us. You shouldn't say stuff like that to Cesc, all right? I mean, I know it's completely unfounded, I've seen them together.” Piqué shrugs guiltily, his eyes on his lap. “But Cesc might not. The kid can be insecure sometimes. That's the last thing he needs, to think that Iker's using him for sex or something.”  
  
Piqué doesn't say anything for a while, just stares out the window, his hand pressed against his lips. “I just hate it,” he admits, barely audible.  
  
“What, you hate that he's taken, or hate that it's not you?"  
  
He tries to laugh. “Don't ask me that."


End file.
